It Was GrassStained Jeans and Incompletes
by iS2.coheed.and.cambria
Summary: Sam hates the hunt and he hates doing laundry. Dean won’t admit just how different Sam really is. Death!fic / evil! ? Sam


**Title: **It Was Grass-Stained Jeans and Incompletes

**Author: **T (for depressing ness)

**Summary: **Sam hates the hunt and he hates doing laundry. Dean won't admit just how different Sam really is. Death!fic / evil!(?)Sam

**Disclaimer: **Would you believe me if I said I did own Supernatural?

**A/N:** A/N: It started out as brotherly banter about doing laundry. This was meant to be _humor._ Someone please tell me how I got from brotherly banter/ humor to death fic/ EXTREME tragedy? I needed to sit down and attempt to write a humor fic to come up with something so tragic I can't believe I wrote it. I'm also experimenting with form/ style. Let me know if it sucks (I'd rather hear you like it though).

This is also really complicated and confusing and I don't even think I understand what I've written but here it is. Let me know what's confusing and I'll fix it up.

P.S. – If this ever happened on the show I might die of sadness or possible unrealistic ness. But that is why it's called fan FICCCCCTION :) So please don't further depress/ scramble my tragic mind by telling me you don't like death fics. To be honest I don't think I like them either.

P.S.S. – I 3 metaphors / symbols

- - - - - - -

The night was empty.

The night was empty. There was no hunt to fill it up. There was no research to take it over. No car rides of exaggerated length to small towns. No big cities in their future sights.

And no, our boys were not curled up in bed. They were not snuggled under their covers with butterfly strips on their eyebrows or medical tape wrapped around their ribs. No, not yet.

They were not injured. They were not sick. And for the record, there were known hunts in and around the area. There was a demon four towns over according to Bobby. There was a nest of Vampires 55 miles in the other direction. Head east for about an hour. You're sure to hit the small town using a pagan god to kill a rival town's crops. Of course somehow leading to death of the 'rival town's' people. Dead on west is an encounter with a reaper (pun intended). And here. Right smack in the middle we find our boys, surrounded by demons and death and blood lust and of course insane people.

But Sam and Dean aren't packing their duffle bags. Neither is starting up the Impala. Instead they're filling a garbage bag with dirty clothes.

Instead of saving the world they do laundry because face it. They've gotta do it sometime.

Ennui drifted through the air and filled their probably damaged lungs. Scratch the probably. Everything about the Winchesters was damaged.

Sam snagged a pair of jeans lodged between the bed and the wall and stuffed it violently into the bag while Dean just watches.

Dean blinks. _Sam's angry. Sam's different._ Dean closes his eyes. _Sam's __**changed.**__ Sam's a demon._

"What?"

Dean's eyes open.

"What?"

"Why were you staring at me before?"

Dean fakes surprise and says, "I wasn't."

Sam doesn't fake surprise, "Yes you were. You're always staring at me these days."

Dean just closes his eyes. Can't say he's staring now.

- - - - - -

"My jeans have grass-stains."

When Dean opens his eyes he's downstairs in the laundry matt.

"What gets out grass-stains?"

Dean doesn't hesitate and whispers, "Nothin',"

Dean closes his eyes again. It's just easier that way.

- - - - - -

They've been fighting for the past couple of days. And Dean can't let there not be noise anymore because when there isn't all he can hear is; _Sam's different. Sam's changed._ Their unusual trip to a usual place like a laundry matt was three days ago and since then they'd gotten rid of that demon. Sucker's probably rottin' in hell as we speak.

But it's strange you see. Dean tries to look away but he can't. When Sam wields that replacement colt in his hands. When shouts out phrases like _"I'll rip your insides out." _In the dead of night, Dean wishes a stray bullet would 'mistakenly' rip through the Impala windshield and into his heart that strangely enough already has an expiration date. But then he forgets about that idea quickly. A thought that has to do with somehow damaging his car can't be a good one.

But Dean's made a catalog of clues in his mind.

Sam kills Demons without a flinch.

Sam says sometimes the voices are too loud in his head.

Sam's changed. He just. Plain. Has.

And so on.

Dean's eyes open for a change and he sees Sam walking towards the car door. Dean is in a sudden and urgent battle with himself to mask the fear in his eyes.

(Dean thinks he fails.)

When Sam slams the Impala door shut and has to steady himself on the dashboard to control himself Dean almost reaches for his gun, but not really.

"What up your ass?" Dean asks almost warily.

Sam breathes heavily and says, "Goddamn fucking bathroom didn't have any paper towels… My hands are fucking wet…"

Dean doesn't know what to say. He just turns the stereo as high as it'll go.

- - - - - -

Sometimes Sam rambles on about doing laundry in Stanford.

Dean usually has nothing to say.

But sometimes Sam throws in **grass-stains** were a bitch to get out then too.

And Dean just _shivers_.

- - - - - -

They haven't talked about laundry in a couple of days and Dean's happy. He doesn't like to talk about messes, why would he like to talk about cleaning them up?

They've been driving without a break for god knows how long, the radio on high blast once again. Creedence Clearwater Revival barely overpowering the constant humming of _Sam's changed, Sam's different._

The humming barely tuning out the intensity of the car ride. Dean has barely moved at all. One wrong move, one wrong word and who knows how this angered on-edge version of Sam will react.

"Shut off the goddamn radio, Dean. For fuck's sake what wrong with a little goddamn silence for once?"

Again, Dean whispers '_christo'_ but is too scared to look and see if Sam's eyes change.

Poor Dean. He just reaches over and silently welcomes the silence. If he looked back now he would probably recognize how scared he was. So scared that his brother could freak and hurt someone. So worried about who he sees when he just disappears at night. Scared he would kill him in his sleep or stab him in his back when he faces the same direction as him. Scared that he might have to keep the second part of that long forgotten promise he'd made to his father, even though he'd thought he'd already kept the first part.

But most of all scared that he was scared. Scared that he was pretending not to be scared.

And Dean is helpless. He just walks around on eggshells. Sam could tell Dean to throw himself in front of a bus and he'd probably do it. He suddenly has this unspoken control dangling over his older brother.

The tension in the car grows, as the silence lasts longer and longer. Neither says a thing. Dean just drives. Sam just sitting and stares ahead, just as he usually does.

Dean chances a look over to his (_demonic)_ brother. And for a change he is not bracing himself against the door handle or trying desperately to even out his breathing. He's just sitting there deep in thought. Sam is in a silent battle with himself in a wish-wash of emotions.

Sam with his anger then with his angst.

It's called mood swings. A few minutes ago Sam blew up. Now he looks close to tears.

He whispers, "I feel like I'm loosing myself."

Sam's changed. Sam's- 

Dean closes his eyes. He tries to close his ears but who knew that was impossible?

He can't hear this, he just can't. He already has to deal with his brother's anger, now he has to deal with his angst to? Now he has to deal with; _Sam's changed, Sam's different._

No.

"How much are iPods?"

- - - - - -

Sam swallows back his frustration and sighs, "Everywhere I fucking look, Dean. My arms are scarred. I've got a goddamned _welt_ on my back from that fucker Jake. I always have rope burns. And look at my fucking jeans, Dean!"

Dean glances down.

Grass-stains like always.

"Tell me how to get it out, tell me how to erase this fucking hunt from my life. I don't want to fight for this anymore…"

Dean swallows back his frustration and sighs.

But says absolutely nothing.

- - - - - -

Sam would soon possess something called crazy or dangerous. And Dean swore he saw it. Swore he knew all about it. But he didn't.

And Sam would never have the chance to tell. He wanted to, oh he wanted to so bad. But he couldn't.

'Physically impossible' it's called.

Dean took to observing then. It was harder to cope with, yes. Just sitting and watching.

'Physically impossible', to say something to his verge-of-deranged brother. More like 'Mentally impossible'.

Sam stands at a laundry counter. Dean's sitting in a plastic chair flipping through some papers.

This is how the Winchesters are now because how else is there to be when one of them is practically crazy.

Dean _hates_ laundry rooms. Dean hates this waste of time but he can't leave Sam alone. He wants to get away so badly, but he can't.

He owes goddamn society that much.

Last time Dean stepped out for a few minutes (which of course turned into a few hours) he returned to find Sam crammed between the wall and the bed.

Sam. His face wet with tears. His eyes red and swollen. His hands slick with blood. His mind swimming. His mouth apologizing. His gun to his head.

Confessing, "I killed that girl, Dean. I had to kill that little girl. I don't deserve it, Dean. I don't deserve to live anymore."

Dean some how manages to over power his brother in the first time in a long time, load him into the Impala and never go back to that unfortunate little town in Arkansas.

But Dean tries not to think about the past week's events. Plus, from all the suicide statistics he's suddenly found the interest to google, it's just not that big a deal, right? Like, people attempt suicide everyday. Goddammit people _kill_ everyday. Cut his Sammy a goddamn break.

Dean opens his eyes for the first time since that day and sees Sam. Folding his grass-stains. Folding his hunts into neat little apple-pie piles. His hands like irons flattening every crease, every wrinkle in the fabric.

Sam's tense. Sam's angry. Now he's throwing the clothes down flattening like his actually beating a demon (actually not really because last Dean checked Sam likes demons now). Scratch that – like he's finally beating a Dean. A brother.

Dean actually sees when Sam's eyes flicker a darker shade of green and his rant begins.

Suddenly Sam's throwing the clothes off the table and onto the dusty floor (surely making them dirty again). Now he's bringing his slowly turning purple fists down as hard as his body will allow unforgivingly on to the poor defenseless table. He's slamming his fists into the machines, into the driers.

(Dean's just watching).

He's kicking the chairs; he's throwing them across the room. He's crying. He's breaking down. He's screaming at the top of lungs.

All of this goes on until he's so exhausted he collapses down to the floor pushing himself up against a wall. His knees curling up protectively in front of him, his head buried into his knees. He's crying and panting and Dean has no idea what to do.

Dean lets him try to calm himself down before he approaches him gently. He places a hand on his shoulder and first Sam flinches away violently but once Dean is stroking his hair and shushing him he relaxes more.

"I can't stand to look at those clothes, Dean. Please don't make me do the laundry anymore."

Dean thinks _I never asked you to you idiot_ but doesn't say it obviously.

"It's the hunt, man. I'm so sick of the fucking hunt. The fucking scars and the fucking pain. I'm so sick of looking everywhere only seeing demons. I'm sick of looking at all our destroyed and grungy stuff. I'm sick of closing my eyes and seeing that fire and hearing my fucking name called like it's some kind of fucking chant. I hate this. I hate doing laundry. I just fucking hate it."

"Ok, Sammy…. Ok…" is all Dean can whisper.

Dean manages to get away from Sam to bag up their clothes in a garbage bag, like seriously, and screw folding the damn clothes. He gets Sam to his feet and guides him out of the rinky-dink laundry matt.

"Don't worry, you're never doing laundry again."

- - - - - -

Dean doesn't think it's weird when he sees Sam changing into his clothes with his eyes closed.

He actually thinks it's the best idea either one of them has had in a long time.

No more fucking grass-stains.

At least not literally.

- - - - - -

Dean doesn't usually sleep much for many reasons.

When you sleep you can't watch Sam.

When you sleep you get too comfortable.

When you sleep you're vulnerable to crazy (_demonic_) brothers.

When you wake up you could be alone.

When you wake up you could be in heaven (hell actually).

And being this stressed-out about sleeping makes it impossible to sleep anyway.

And Dean felt it. He knew that one time.

He and Sam were fighting, something about a hunt. Something about scars. Sam yelled out something like, "It's like I can't look at my skin and not see scars. I hate it. And it's all because of dad…"

Dean knows he whispered, "and you," under his breath.

And when Dean didn't know how to respond he turned his back and in that cursed rear-view mirror he saw light catch on the knife wielded in his own brother's hand. Sam's unsteady fingers itching to stab his older brother clear through his spinal cord.

Dean whispers '_christo'_ but is too scared to look and see if Sam's eyes change.

Even though that has nothing to do with sleep Dean scared of what Sam will do if he ever lets his guard down again.

Dean sleeps a couple hours a night mostly all consisting of 10-minute naps. Some times he wakes up and Sam's missing but he always comes back. Dean never asks where he goes though, whom he sees.

But this time Dean's had enough. He remembers falling asleep at 3:01. Sam was in the bed next to him then. He wakes up at 3:17 and Sam's not there.

Here it is 4:27 and Sam's not back yet.

And even for his abnormal brother this just isn't normal.

It's just when Dean is about to go looking for the dumb kid himself Sam practically breaks through the door, stumbling to his feet.

Dean stands in the doorway only in his boxers and a thin beater infuriated. Sam looks drunk but Dean knows he isn't. This is just (_demon_) Sam at 4:30 in the morning. Covered in blood and barely standing up.

"Where in gods name have you been, Sam?" and he notices Sam flinch slightly but his eyes don't change. Or at least he doesn't see them change because his brother is facing the other direction by now.

"Out." He whispers nonchalantly. Like it doesn't even fucking _matter. _And Dean trembles.

"You can't just go out like that! I was worried. I can't deal with waking up and not knowing where the hell you are!"

Sam shrugs, "Well maybe it's time you learnt to deal with it."

"Christo." Dean says extremely sure of himself.

Sam flips around and yells in Dean's face, his eyes unchanging, "You think I'm a fucking demon, Dean? I'm your brother. I'm the only thing you _have_ and you treat me like this? God, you're leaving me like _this?"_

Dean looks at his brother. He must have gotten into a fight with someone or some_thing_ because he's bloodied and bruised, then again, who knows if that's his blood.

Dean continues examining his brother and eventually falls upon a black mark half tucked under his sleeve.

"Sam, what is that?" he asks.

Sam glances down, pulls down his sleeve and says, "Nothin',"

"Sam, tell me what it is!"

"I already did, it's nothing!"

Suddenly Dean takes his brothers shoulders in his hands and slams him up against one of the motel room walls, reaches for his sleeve and pulls it up. And there it is. Some kind of symbol tattooed to his baby brother's skin. Some kind of demonic symbol.

_Sam's changed. Sam's different. Sam's a __**demon**__. Sam's changed. Sam's different. Sam's a –_

"Get off me."

Sam shoves Dean back and Dean's just left stunned, "Sam, why the hell would you tattoo _that_ to your _arm."_

"You wouldn't understand." Sam whispers.

Dean grabs his brother's shoulders and looks at him desperately now yelling in his face just as Sam had done earlier, "Please Sam, please! Tell me what's going on with you. Tell me why you're so angry all the time. Tell me why you're sick of hunting. Tell me why you feel like you're loosing yourself. Tell me why there's a demonic symbol tattooed to your arm. Tell me why you haven't fucking wanted to tell me all of this yet!"

The brothers are both panting starting at each other. Their eyes looked on each other and the others every drop of body language.

"Like I said, Dean. You wouldn't understand. You're too fucking _human_."

Dean steps back and lets Sam remove himself from the wall. Dean is horrified and Sam smiles, walking away

- - - - - - -

Sam doesn't talk about the tattoo or the scars.

He never talks about _grass-stains_ or about fucking laundry. It's too hard.

But now all Dean can think about is the scars. Now all his can see are grass-stains.

He sees people walking down the street in their favorite pair of grass-stained jeans and wonders if they're like them, wonders if they know about the hunt in the current town.

But then Dean remembers that Grass-stains are actually pretty common.

- - - - - - -

It's been two weeks since the event in the laundry matt. It's been 6 days since the late night drama in that motel room.

Dean's standing outside a laundry matt debating whether he should go in.

They haven't done laundry since he vowed Sam was never doing it again but now they're out of wearable clothes. His are stained with mud and grass, Sam are stained with mud and blood and grass.

Dean thinks _oh, fuck it_ and walks into that empty laundry matt.

Half way through doing laundry Dean thinks _what's the big deal with doing this?_ He thinks _sure its time consuming and annoying, but what the big fucking deal?_

But when the drier is done Dean starts to realize what the big deal is.

Dean piles the clothes on a counter, readying to fold them in whatever way he can and pulls out a soft white shirt of Sam's.

Dean put this shirt in ready to be washed. It was covered in blood when the washer started and here it is now, stained pink.

Dean throws-up in his mouth and finally he gets it. Finally he sees what laundry really is to a hunter.

Dean frantically looks at all the clothes and sees all of them: stained. Every single damn piece of fabric stained from something. Blood, mud, sweat, tears, gunpowder.

Hurt, fear, death, hunt. Every single one stained with hunt.

And grass-stains, lets not forget that.

Dean scrubs into the shirt with his fingernails trying to get rid of that pink reminder but it won't go away. There it is imprinted forever.

It's in that moment that he's standing in a laundry matt somewhere in Texas, tears rimming his eyes. A pile of 'clean' clothes next to him, that he realizes they'll never be clean.

They'll always have the hunt on them they'll always have _pain_ imbedded in their strings. Dean had never done laundry before. Sam had always been the one who had to take those clothes down once a week and stare at the stains. The stains he didn't want in his life in the first place because Sam would rather be studying law (or hanging out with demons) than killing evil. And now Dean sees that even if they put the grass-stains (hunt) into the washer, add some fucking detergent and fabric softener and then load them into the drier. Fold them up like some kind of joke. Even if you choose between Pledge or Downy or Febreze scented or Tide or Brand less. Even if you add those little papers into the drier or add some bleach it doesn't change a thing. All they give you are grass-stains back.

You can never erase the hunt from your clothes, you can buy new ones sure but they'll just go back to being stained again.

And even if you give up hunting. Even if they decide to live some apple-pie, cookie cutter, nine to five life the scars will always be there for them.

Nothing can erase this hunt from their life not law school not death not love not 'Tide'.

Dean shoves the pile of clothes back into a bag and throws it over his shoulder stalking from the matt.

He vows that no matter what Sam's never feeling like he just felt ever again.

- - - - - - -

On some level of Dean's sub-conscience Dean knows Sam's been extra different ever since that break down in that laundry matt weeks ago.

At first Sam just seemed angry and on edge especially after he killed that girl for whatever reason.

He knows there was a reason but he can't quite put his finger on it.

- - - - - - -

Now once again Sam's come home late in the night and even though Dean usually wouldn't have the courage to say anything this time he can smell smoke and alcohol on him as if he was a crazy person's air freshener. There's blood on him and mud too and of course grass-stains. What would Sam's jeans be without that eerie reminder?

Something is especially crazy about Sam tonight. His eye is twitching his pupils are large and hungry. And of course there's that whole gun aimed at Dean thing.

"Sam, god put the gun down we can work this out."

Sam ignores Dean pleading and says, "No we can't."

Dean knows it but Sam doesn't. Dean still has his gun tucked into his belt. He tries to remember if he clicked the safety on or not and is pretty sure he forgot this time. Usually a deadly mistake but now a blessing.

"Sam why are you doing this? Tell me why it is you're doing this!"

"You'll never get it, you'll never fucking get it!" Sam yells.

"Try me, please little brother just try…"

"Dean I know you've seen it. I'm _changing, _I'm fucking _different…"_

Dean flinches.

"I killed that girl so easily. I kill people every fucking night so _easily._ For no reason too. I just do it. It just makes me feel like something I can't even explain. And I went to fucking hell. Jesus I can remember it. I can still feel the fire lick at my skin. And they did things, Dean. They did awful things and I can never be the same. It's like I miss it. I miss being there…"

Dean knows now that the safety is clicked off, he just fucking _knows_ it. Because every single word his brother is saying makes sense. All the confessing all the worries becoming true and Dean can suddenly hear _Sam's changed, Sam's different_ being overpowered with Sam's voice saying _I'm changing, I'm fucking different._ And that chant is now being mixed with his father's voice saying, repeating that promise over and over.

"I need to kill Dean. Fuck I need to feel blood on my hands. I need to taste-"

Soon his brothers voice and his old little mantra and his new little mantra and that damn promise all become too much and before Dean has the chance to stop himself he's pulled the gun out from his waist band and shot his brother square in the heart.

It's then he realizes the gun is actually the colt.

Sam body convulses, his eyes turn black, his body flickers red and yellow as the demon inside him is killed leaving Sam's body to collapse to the floor near death.

After the smoke for the gun clears Dean opens his eyes. Sam's eyes look up at his brother and blink once or twice before a tear slips out and then close, never to open again.

Dean hears: _easy, too fucking easy _and _I've been in your brother since his little breakdown in that laundry matt._

Dean collapses to the floor next to his brother's body. He's screaming but he's not really sure because now all he can hear is Sam's voice whispering as if from the other side _I tried to tell you, Dean… Wasn't me, Dean… You did the right thing, Dean…_

It takes death to fill the air to realize he'd seen the blackened eyes before. And that girl that Sam killed was possessed by a near un-exorcisable demon. And Dean had just been only seeing the bad. Sam wasn't evil until after that breakdown, Sam was just angry, just scared.

Sam just needed his older brother.

Dean peers down the barrel of the gun that has mechanically moved under his chin and looks down at his baby brother's jeans through tear-blurred eyes and sees grass-stains.

Grass-stains like always.

It's in the second before he pulls the trigger he wonders if there are grass-stains in heaven.

- - - - - - -

A/N: Please don't hate me silently, review instead!


End file.
